


Crystal Star

by trashtrove (editoress)



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Witch World - Andre Norton
Genre: Andre Norton, F/M, The Crystal Gryphon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/pseuds/trashtrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the Fae are nothing but a nightmare legend, humans rule the land. But Rhysand of is born with wings, a cursed sign of the Fae, branding him an outcast. His father tries to save face with an arranged marriage. But when everything starts coming apart, the engagement may have to save Rhysand--and the land itself.</p><p>Based on The Crystal Gryphon by Andre Norton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For Katie. I'm almost as grateful to be able to witness her boundless creativity as I am to be her friend.

_Long ago, there were the Fae._

_Most call them the Old Ones—beings of magic who drew life and power from the land.  Strange creatures with unfathomable abilities of mind and spirit and the will to call on the elements.  Once they were the greatest power in the world._

_Now we know them only by the ruins they left behind._

_If humankind ever knew why the Fae abandoned this land, then we no longer remember.  All we remember is fear, a fear almost more inherited than learned.  Magic still resides in everything they touched—powerful curses.  Their talismans and their names are reviled.  And above all, no respectable man or woman wanders into the still-standing ruins if they expect to emerge again._

_It was in one of these Fae ruins that I was born._

_The story, such as I know it, is that my mother was traveling as her time approached, and a storm forced her party to take shelter where they could find it.  It was a stone temple of the Old Ones, empty and dusty but still undamaged despite the centuries.  And very, very cursed._

_That is the only explanation anyone can find.  My mother and father are ordinary humans like anyone else.  Yet somehow they birthed a monster._

_I cannot say what is so inhuman about my eyes.  Some people do have eyes termed violet—but not like this.  Not like the sky at twilight, not so uncannily clear.  My ears are pointed, though at times in my life I have been able to hide this feature, when my dark hair grows shaggy._

_But I cannot hide the wings._

_My wings are large, wider at full stretch than I am tall, and they are a ghastly black.  No feathers cover them; they are leathery, like a bat's.  Demon wings.  They protrude from my back, and though they are flexible enough to be hidden under a cloak for a short time, there is no true way to disguise myself as an ordinary young man._

_My name is Rhysand.  I am the heir to Highfell.  And despite how much I would like to believe otherwise, I am not human._

* * *

If there lived a more grizzled veteran than Surkhan, no one in Highfell had met him.  Battles upon battles had left him limp, scarred, and nearly fingerless on one hand.  He still wore a sword strapped to his side, but his fighting days were long over.  There was no shortage of crippled soldiers in these hills, living off scraps and charity.  But Surkhan was provided for.  Hidden away in the high country, far from the keep, Surkhan stood at the crest of a hill and watched Highfell's lord approach.

Lord Imris rode with only a few retainers.  He was dark-haired and pale, like most of Highfell, but on him it gained an extra edge of cold regality.  He did not dismount when he reached Surkhan, but waited in silence until the veteran sketched such a bow as he could muster.  "Where is the boy?" Imris asked.

"My lord," Surkhan replied, "he is inside.  We weren't sure when to expect you."

"If you can await me, then so can he."  Imris dismounted and left his horse with his retainers.  Surkhan's nose and ears were red with the fall chill, but the noble seemed unaffected.  "Take me to him.  I need to speak with him."

Surkhan led the way to his house—a modest thing, but with touches that showed it was well kept.  "I hope there is no dire matter, my lord."

"An important one," Imris replied.  "It is time he took his place at my side."

Surkhan gazed up into the sky, swallowing words he could not say to the man who had kept him and his son from starving.  _Eighteen years too late.  After seeing the boy no more than once a year, you want him at the keep?  Why now?_   "Good news, my lord."

"Indeed.  No doubt he has long anticipated this day."

"No doubt."  _Why now?_

* * *

"You look ill at ease, Your Majesty."

Rhysand's nostrils flared irritably.  He was a young man, grown but with traces of boyishness still lingering in his features.  He sat at the table with his chin resting in one hand while the other drummed anxious rhythms into the wood.  But though he held himself like any other young man caught between boredom and nerves, no one could miss the shadowy wings that arched over his form.  "Stop it."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly."  His companion was a scruffy, ordinary boy growing into a sort of rugged handsomeness.  Though it held far fewer scars, his mien echoed that of Surkhan.  Right now it was stretched into a mocking grin.  "I am at your service, my noble liege."

"Cassian," Rhysand warned.  When Cassian swept into a theatrical bow, Rhysand swatted the back of his head.  Cassian's attempts to defend himself erupted into a familiar scuffle—the sort Surkhan had been dealing with for nearly two decades.

It was thus that Lord Imris found them.  Rhysand and Cassian both straightened under his disapproving gaze.  Rhysand tucked his wings tighter until they were nearly hidden behind his back.

"Rhysand," Imris intoned, "I would speak with you."

Rhysand stood.  Cassian seemed at last to come to his senses.  He gave Lord Imris a hurried bow and sidled outside, where his father was waiting.

Imris waited until they were gone to turn to Rhysand.  "The time has come for Highfell to know you are my heir."  Rhysand started, but Imris pressed on, "You are my only true son, and only _my_ name and blood will continue to rule Highfell when I pass.  Your mother would have the title pass to your elder half-brother."

"So would many of our people," Rhysand murmured.  He had not grown up deaf to rumors.

"I did not ask the people," Imris said sharply.  "When you come to live at the keep, everyone will see that my choice is made.  My lady's supporters will be silenced."

The wonder in Rhysand's expression faded.  He understood his father's meaning.  He was not a son being brought home; he was a political tool being brought to court.  "When?"

"Three days hence, so you can prepare."  Lord Imris' eyes swept around the house.  "If there is indeed anything you need to take with you."

There was nowhere for Rhysand to stare that did not build up bitter anger.  Practice swords were stacked in the corner; Surkhan's maps were laid carefully out on shelves; and even the doorframe was engraved with rough carvings done by young hands.  There was nothing he would not miss at the keep.  He swallowed.  "Yes, Father."

"And there is one more matter," Imris added thoughtfully.  "It will not become relevant for some time.  But to help legitimize your claim, I have arranged a marriage for you."

Rhysand's heart sank.  "A marriage?"

"Yes.  You are betrothed to the niece of the lord of Meirya.  The match is approved and the ceremonies are done with."  Lord Imris turned and left, dismissing the conversation and leaving his son standing in the greatroom.

Rhysand wondered what kind of poor soul had been promised to marry him.

* * *

"Lady Katelyn?  My lady!"

Katelyn slammed the book shut with such fervor that it sent her dark red hair in disarray.  She only just managed to shove the tome in a drawer before the approaching voice arrived at her chamber doorway.  "Lady Kate—there you are!"

Katelyn shook her hair back into place and turned to face her handmaiden.  "Yes, Tressa, what is it?"

"Lord Olen wishes to see you," Tressa answered smartly.  She eyed Katelyn's hair.  "Must you sit by the windows when it's so breezy out, my lady?"

"I have better things to worry about than my hair," Katelyn replied.  She smoothed it down as she stood.  "Tell my uncle I'll be there right away.  Could you tell how serious it was?"

Tressa clicked her tongue.  "He looked same as usual, my lady.  I couldn't tell if anything troubled him.  Hopefully not ruling matters."

Katelyn's face turned stony as she brushed past her handmaiden.  "My uncle _enjoys_ consulting me on running our keep and our lands."

"I just think you shouldn't have to worry about such things, my lady," Tressa sighed, as if she were being sympathetic.

"I enjoy it, too," Katelyn snapped.  "If you have some concern about my skill at ruling, then say it.  Otherwise, I won't hear anything else of it from you."

Tressa's mouth clicked shut.  Before she could even offer a "Yes, my lady," Katelyn had swept down the hall, toward the chamber Lord Olen used for private audiences.  As she passed through the keep, her people greeted her and offered their speculations on the latest news.  Many shared Tressa's opinion on her being taught as a male heir might, but most cared for more immediate things: that she remembered their names, that she had helped them on occasion as she learned the complex workings of the keep.  She was not yet of full age and could already lead the keep for days at a time.

When Katelyn finally found her uncle, she piped up, "Are tidings good or bad?"

Olen's mouth twisted wryly.  "That depends on your view," he replied.  "If you were greatly looking forward to the being the lady of Meirya, then you have my condolences."

Olen had no direct heirs, nor did he seek to wed.  Katelyn frowned.  "Then... I'm being sent away?"

"Married off," Olen corrected.  "It is a good match, by all accounts.  As of now, you are the betrothed of the heir of Highfell, the young lord Rhysand."


	2. I - Rhysand

Rhysand did not have many goodbyes to make.

The hills where he had grown up had never offered complete solitude.  It was a rural place but not a wild one; people lived scattered here and there, tending land and livestock.  There was even something of a village—in truth little more than an inn and a trading post—at the crossroads.  But Rhysand had been sent here to be raised away from people because of his deformities, and it was his deformities that kept him apart from even the few people who lived here.  He knew names and faces, and he had traded wary words with some neighbors over the years.  Yet there were very few who would miss him when he left.

Rhysand was not certain how to say goodbye to Surkhan and Cassian.  So on the day before his departure, he journeyed up almost into the mountains to see the only other person he knew well enough to care for—and the only one who also understood what it was to be outcast.

Nestled in the cold rock was a sturdy structure.  Rhysand had always thought it less a house and more a treasure trove.  At first glance it always looked bare, but tucked into corners and cabinets were more small treasures than he could count.  Rhysand knocked on the door and waited, stretching his wings absently.

He was greeted by a petite figure.  For all her small, slim build, she had the sharpness of a knife.  "Rhysand."

"Amren.  Will you let me in?"

She did so.  Rhysand stepped inside, looking over the shelves and cupboards he had stared at for so much of his childhood.  In turn, Amren watched him, her gray eyes piercing.  Before he could begin to explain himself, she asked pointedly, "Is it Lord Rhysand now?"

Rhysand started.  "Yes."  He did not ask how she knew.  Amren had always known things without being told.  "I'm to live at the keep now."

"This is a dangerous time to be living at the keep," Amren said shortly.  She strode away, her eyes raking the trinkets along the walls.

Rhysand frowned after her.  "I don't know when we'll see each other again."

"Maybe never," she replied evenly.

"Amren—!"

"Don't get worked up."

She continued around the room.  Whether she was searching for something or just taking stock, he could not tell, but his heart twisted at how callously she was treating his departure.  His voice darkened.  "I came to say goodbye."

"Obviously."

Rhysand's jaw clenched and he stared at the floor, throat tight.  So intent was he on his anger and hurt that he didn't notice she had picked something up until she appeared before him with something in her hands.  "Take this with you," she said.

Rhysand met her eyes, incredulous.  " _Take_ it?"

She held it out to him.  From a long silver chain hung a crystal sphere, and within that was carved a tiny, intricate star.  Flecks of silver shone at its edges, and it seemed almost to sparkle with a light all its own.

He shook his head.  "You never even let me _touch_ your treasures."

Amren hummed in agreement.  "But this one's yours.  And perhaps it will help protect you in coming days."

Rhysand cupped his hands and took it.  The crystal was warm against his skin.  And when he put on the necklace and tucked it under his shirt, the feel of it against his chest brought him a strange kind of hopefulness.  Some of his dread was lifted away.

"Be careful," Amren added quietly.

"Thank you."  He hesitated.  "I hope we do see each other again."

"Then make sure it happens," she replied smartly.  Her voice had returned to its unyielding matter-of-fact tone, but some concern lingered in her light eyes.

Rhysand had never asked why Amren kept no company except his (and occasionally, reluctantly, Cassian's), just as he had never asked where she got her endless trinkets and how she knew so much as she did.  This time, too, he left without prying.  All he truly needed to know was that Amren was a friend.

On the day of his departure, Rhysand packed what he could.  There was little enough that belonged solely to him, and he would take nothing that Surkhan or Cassian could use later.  When he was ready, Surkhan pulled him into a rough embrace.  "You always have a place here," the veteran said huskily.  Rhysand could not speak—only hope that Surkhan knew that he had been as good as a father to him.

"And if you need me, I'll _make_ a place for myself at the keep," Cassian declared.  "Send word and I'll be there."

"If I need someone to make me look skilled at sparring," Rhysand teased.

"What!  A bold challenge from an untested lordling with no balance!"  Cassian leapt at him, raining down light blows on his head and shoulders that Rhysand couldn't shake free from.

"I surrender!" Rhysand allowed at last.

"Well, don't get in that habit, brother.  It'll be bad for Highfell."

Even Cassian's lightheartedness vanished upon Lord Imris' arrival.  Cassian squeezed Rhysand's shoulder as he passed.  Rhysand pressed his wings tight behind his back.

Rhysand could see some of his own countenance in Highfell's lord.  The aquiline nose and the pointed chin were there, and his hair was the same soft black as his father's.  But there was nothing in his father's stare but cold calculation.  "It is time," Lord Imris intoned.

"Yes, Father," Rhysand replied.  He mounted the horse brought for him.  He had to shift his wings to maintain balance, and already he felt the stares of his father's retainers.  He looked back once to see Surkhan and Cassian standing together at the doorway.  And then they were gone, out of sight beyond the crest of a hill.

It was a long ride to Highfell Keep, and Lord Imris took the time to inform him of current matters of the court.  Rhysand knew that he had a half-brother and a cousin at the keep, but little else.  In military matters and relations with other lands he retained knowledge well.  But hearing the names of so many minor nobles made his head spin.  "What of my mother?" he asked at last.

"Away visiting her own family," Imris replied.  "She will be absent when we arrive.  _That_ is for the best."

Rhysand desperately wanted to ask what she looked like, but he refrained.  He had always guessed aspects of her appearance from his own.  She was darker-complected than his father, and the shape of her eyes must have more closely matched his.  He asked no more questions for the rest of the journey.

As they approached the keep, there were more and more people along the road, certainly more than Rhysand had seen in his short lifetime.  He wanted nothing more than to duck under their horrified gazes, but the pendant at his breast warmed him just enough to let him keep his head up.  No matter what they thought of him, no matter what his father's purpose in bringing him, he was heir here.

That thought kept him standing tall through his introduction to the court, when he stood before such finery and wealth he had never seen and hundreds watched him.  It kept his composure when a servant came to light a fire and gaped at him.  It kept him regally silent when he accidentally brushed a maid with his wing and she shrieked.  But to Rhysand's relief, it was only these small offenses he had to face.  No one came forth to defame him.  Apparently all the court feared Lord Imris and obeyed his word.  And through him Rhysand was obeyed, too.  Not loved, but at least respected.

Until now he had only seen his father perhaps a dozen times in his life, and he had never laid eyes on his mother.  So he did not expect the rest of his kin to welcome him with open arms.  But to his surprise, even when no other noble would speak to him, they approached him gladly.

"They said you were unnatural, cousin," Morrigan told him frankly, "but not that you had wings!"  She stared, too, but her gaze weighed on him less for its openness and admiration.  "Tell me true—can you fly?"

"I don't know," Rhysand admitted.

"That would be something," Morrigan declared.

"I think we should find out," Tarran decided.  It was Tarran who gave Rhysand a better idea what their mother looked like; he shared Rhysand's skin tone but had soft brown eyes.  He and Morrigan seemed opposite in appearance.  He was a young man of quick smiles and quicker ideas.

Rhysand returned his smiles, but he could not bring himself to trust either of them entirely.  "The nobility might disapprove," he said dryly.

Tarran nodded.  "I understand.  You're still learning how their favor turns."

"I suppose you do have a lot to make up for," Morrigan said, frowning thoughtfully.

"Not so cruel, cousin," Tarran admonished.

As much as Rhysand desired to have true family here, Amren's warning did not leave his mind.  _This is a dangerous time._   And soon his mother, the lady of Highfell, would return.  So Rhysand acted the part of a lord as best he could.  He kept company with his half-brother and cousin.  And when he missed home—Surkhan's cooking, the quiet of the hills—he held the crystal Amren had given him, and it gave him strength.  The pendant was the only thing he kept wholly to himself, hidden always against his skin.

But even that could not remain, for danger there came.


	3. II - Katelyn

_Lady Katelyn_ , the letter began.

Katelyn held the missive as if it were made of glass and read the words on it with no less care.  She knew it took weeks, sometimes months, for a courier to get from Highfell to Meirya.  By her figuring, this letter had been written within the week that their engagement was decided.  That point was not lost on her.  Whatever this letter contained, Lord Rhysand had felt the need to get it to her as soon as possible.  She read through it once and then again, more slowly.

_I imagine you learned of our betrothal in the same way I did: after the fact.  I will not insult you by refusing the betrothal.  I have nothing against you and would not want to dishonor you without reason.  But if you cannot abide this arrangement, know I will not turn my house against yours for it.  No insult will be taken.  Neither of us made this choice._

Beneath this short message was written in a tight, curling script, _Sincerely, Rhysand_.

Katelyn's intuition wavered uncertainly, and her thoughts followed.  What could this mean?  It seemed gracious, but why would he be so quick to offer her this escape when she yet had no real cause to object to the betrothal?  She could not help but feel it was an ominous sign.

There were other things about the letter that should have warmed her.  She could tell by spots of ink that Rhysand had not dictated the letter but written it himself, with very little concern for how noble it did or did not look.  He had subtly invited her to call him only by his given name, but had not first presumed to omit her own title.

What was she meant to think about this stranger whose future now intertwined with hers?  She had nothing of his except this letter, and in large part it mystified her.

She had no more time to puzzle over it.  Hurried footsteps sounded at her door, and Katelyn turned to see Tressa with her hair in disarray, flushed and short of breath.  "My lady," she said, "visitors from Primarre.  They are in the main hall, with grave news.  Lord Olen said to fetch you at once."

Katelyn abandoned all thought of the letter and rushed to the hall at once.  The speed of her descent down the stair pulled at her dress, and her skirts billowed back around her once she finally stopped.  Her uncle was already there.  Before him stood familiar figures.  The nobles of Pimarre were not unknown to her, though several years had passed since she had last seen them.  The golden-haired sisters looked similar, but their carriage was so different that they were impossible to mistake for one another.  The one who stood tall and proud in front could be none other than Nesta.  The other was Elain, with her open, gentle expression.  Several armed retainers bearing Primarre colors stood around them, headed by a fiery-haired courtier.  The two women were the sisters of Lady Feyre; the redhead was Lucien, a valued member of Lord Tamlin's court.  For such important people to be sent here unannounced bespoke troubled times indeed.

"By iron and ash, we welcome you," Katelyn offered.

Lucien bowed.  "By iron and ash, we thank you for your hospitality," he replied formally.  With a more genuine tone, he added, "We _are_ very grateful, Lady Katelyn.  We don't normally show up spontaneously on doorsteps."

Olen put his hand on Katelyn's shoulder.  "Primarre has always been a friend to Meirya.  What brings you here?  Trouble?"

Lucien began, "Perhaps we should—"

Nesta's chin lifted.  "The threat of invasion."

Gasps rippled around the hall.  Chill fear blossomed in Katelyn's heart.  Hybern had always been a threat, but a distant one, especially to an eastern land like hers.  Neither Meirya nor any other known kingdom had relations or trade with it.  Every child grew up knowing that Hybern might one day truly strike, but never thought they might live to see it.

With an unreadable glance at Nesta, Lucien explained, "Hybern is always plaguing our waters, but lately their attacks have landed.  Some agents and scouts have been discovered inland, and we fear they are testing our defenses for a major assault."  He looked as grim as any of the soldiers around him.  "Lord Tamlin would have come to ask you himself if he could have, but he and Feyre had to stay.  If you're willing to help us, we need Meirya's troops."

"And a place to send our people," Nesta added, quiet but steely, "should the worst come to pass."

Katelyn did not expect to be consulted on such a dreadful matter, so it took her a few moments to realize that Olen was watching her.  In a low voice that would not carry to Primarre's emissaries, he said, "We have always upheld our alliance with them before."

She knew she should think carefully, but her heart had decided.  She knew what was right.  "Then we should do so now.  When it is needed most."

The lines around her uncle's eyes deepened in a proud smile.  Katelyn's heart sank as she remembered that this would not be her fate—making decisions to help her people and their allies, standing beside her uncle until he relinquished the title to her.

"We will give your lord what men we can," Olen announced.  "Do you have the means to send word back to Primarre?"

"Of course, Lord Olen," Lucien answered with such deep relief that he could not keep up the appearance of formality.

"Then do so.  And then take your rest.  You have had a long journey and carried worries all the way."

Olen did not keep their guests after the decision was made.  He set out to find places for the retainers to sleep and ordered a simple dinner made.  Katelyn's only duty for now was to bring the sisters to their rooms.  Nesta and Elain did not visit often enough to be friends.  The last time she had seen them, they had all been around fourteen years old.  But she knew them well enough to enjoy their company.

"It's nice to see you, at least," Elain offered as they treaded up the stairs.

"You as well."  Katelyn exhaled quietly.  "Though I'm sorry we couldn't reunite under better circumstances."

"Well!"  Elain clasped her hand.  "Let's talk about good things!  The three of us need not be so gloomy."  She smiled slyly.  "Did you know Nesta is going to be married?"

Katelyn found herself gasping, intrigued at the news despite the mood, and she turned to Nesta.  Nesta shook her head at her sister but removed a small, framed picture from her travel pouch.  "It's an arranged betrothal to a young lord in the south," she explained, "Thomas Mandray."

Katelyn examined the picture and deigned to keep her observations to herself.  Lord Mandray looked much too old for even Nesta, who was the oldest of them, and he had a cruel set to his eyes.  "I see," Katelyn said diplomatically.

Nesta's eyes narrowed, perhaps sensing her insincerity.  "What of you, then?"

Katelyn loathed to share news before she herself knew how to feel about it, but in this case she saw little choice.  "I am promised to Rhysand, son of the lord of Highfell."

Elain's hand flew to her mouth.  Nesta raised her eyebrows and said, "You don't seem afraid."

"Why should I be?" Katelyn challenged.

"Your uncle promised you to a monster.  Rhysand is the spawn of an Old One."

Had the words come from anyone else, Katelyn would have thought them a joke.  But Nesta was nothing if not honest, sometimes cruelly so, and her voice left no room for doubt.  The unease sparked by the letter grew tenfold.

"You didn't know," Nesta decided when she saw the expression on Katelyn's face.  "I only told you because you like to know things as they are.  You would have heard of it sooner or later, anyway.  There have always been rumors about him, but they were confirmed when he was introduced at court."

Katelyn knew she should ask more, and she wanted to; but she couldn't stand to hear the answers from Nesta.  The older girl could sound so cold when she had a mind to.  So she made the rest of the journey in silence.  Once she had seen to their guests, she sought out her uncle.

She found Olen in his study, looking as tired as she had ever seen him.  There were maps and reports spread out before him, and he kneaded one temple with his fingertips.  He stopped when he caught sight of her.  "Katelyn.  What's wrong?"

"Perhaps I should be asking you, Uncle."  But she tugged at her hair anxiously, and after a moment, Katelyn admitted, "I want to talk about Lord Rhysand.  I heard... some disturbing things from Nesta and Elain."

Olen frowned.  "There were bound to be rumors about the boy.  Lord Imris kept him away from court until he was of age.  Folk are excitable in the face of mystery; that's all."

"Nesta said they're all true," she blurted out.  "That they were rumors before, but now he is _known_ to be one of _them_.  Like the Old Ones."

"This has really upset you," Olen realized.  He came around the table to put his hands on her shoulders.  "Katelyn, Lord Imris has given his solemn word that his son is an ordinary man in good health.  Whatever else you hear is only idle talk."  His brow furrowed.  "You know I would never put you in danger of the Old Ones or their magic."

"I know," she replied, voice small.  His reassurances made her realize just how apprehensive the news had made her.  "Thank you, Uncle."

Yet hours later, deep into the night, the thought would not leave her be.  Was there some truth behind the talk surrounding Lord Rhysand?  What of his mysterious letter offering her the chance to break the betrothal?  She would do her duty, but she would not be tricked into a marriage that had not been agreed upon.  The idea of waking up and finding herself wed to a monster chased away any chance of sleep.

At last, Katelyn rose and leaned over her nightstand.  She pulled an old, heavy book from the drawer and laid it open on a table.  Beside it she poured dark red wine into a shallow bowl.  Olen would never knowingly allow her near anything supernatural.  She knew that very well.  Because she knew that her dear uncle would panic if he ever learned that Katelyn herself could use magic.

She ran her finger around the rim of the bowl three times, clearing her mind as she did so.  Then, when she felt the spell was working, she bent to peer into the bowl.  She had done this only a handful of times—in part out of fear of being caught, and in part because she had promised herself she would only use magic on worthy occasions.  But this night she felt compelled to know what her future held.

Katelyn had hoped the spell would show her Rhysand himself.  Instead, it shifted for some time before a strange image shimmered into being.  She saw a glittering shape like a star.  As it became clearer, she saw it was carved into the center of something.  A glass pendant—no—a crystal.  It was enchanting in its simple beauty.

When the spell faded, Katelyn had no more answers than she had begun with.  But it had strengthened her resolve.  If she could not see her future, she would create it.  And so while everyone else in the keep slept, Lady Katelyn wrote a letter.


End file.
